Moments
by penvision
Summary: Sweet, simple moments between Arthur and Ariadne.  Updated!  Now with dialogue, and they make out!  Yay!
1. Chapter 1

AN: Just some pre-work unrelated but completely intertwined drabbles. I'm in love with these two right now.

. . .

She loved to watch him sleep. Always a deep, dreamless sleep. She could not help but run her fingers along his relaxed jaw, his smooth forehead, the sharp lines of his cheeks. The normally taut features of his face, which remained even while he was dreaming, faded, and she could imagine his eyes; soft and smiling. She watched the deep, even rise and fall of his chest, his slow, steady pulse beat in his neck, felt his warm breath against her hand. He reached an arm out, searching, and she watched it wander until it found her ribs. He pulled himself closer, entangling their legs, a content sigh escaping him, and she could not help but smile, her fingers brushing through the edge of his hair. She lifted her head from her pillow, bent over, kissed his forehead. She rolled over and he unconsciously pulled her against his chest, burying his nose in her hair, his hand finding hers and intertwining their fingers. A few mumbled half words slipped between his lips, lost in her hair, but still he slept.

. . .

Arthur sat on the worn couch, legs stretched in front of him, his eyes darting back and forth as he read a thick novel that smelled faintly of moss. Ariadne sat next to him, their sides pressed together, and listened to the breeze laden with mumbled French half heard. She played with the fingers of his hand, captured in both of hers. She traced over his knuckles, drew invisible lines over his viens, pulled his long fingers taut and then curled them, watching the skin pull and flex.

He watched her, an amused glint in his eyes and a ghost of a smile on his lips. He wrapped his hand in hers, intertwining their fingers, and brought her hand to his cheek, kissed it, let their hands drop back into her lap. She traced invisible lines on his arm, meaningless, pointless, but this moment did not need to have a point. Just to be and to be here, with him, was enough.

. . .

She loved to watch him work; standing over his desk, hands gripping the edges. She could always tell when he was lost within his own thoughts; his eyes turned dark, unfocused. When he sat it was never hunched over his desk, instead he stretched his legs out in front of him, all long lines and sharp angles. He was an artist, if in a different way than her, he loved his research, loved the discovery. But he always followed the rules. Rules, rules, rules. And he knew all of them, believed in them, had seen what happens when they are broken.

They had spent countless hours in this warehouse, alone together. Spent countless hours dreaming together. Creating together. Arthur loved paradoxes and puzzles, loved spending hours trying to solve her latest labyrinth. Ariadne loved how her architecture mixed with his subconscious. For every one of her questions he had an answer, full and detailed. They had become friends, were standing on the precipice of something more.

. . .

Love. She had always thought that it would be more intense than this. Shakespearean. Tragic. Heart aching, heartbreaking . ". . .Half of a whole." Romeo and Juliet, Dom and Mal. Loving Arthur was peaceful. Slow. Silent. Simple. It was perhaps the easiest thing that she had ever done. They were not two parts of a whole, not yet, but she knew that if they wanted to be someday they would be. Arthur adored her, and how could she not adore him?

"Quick, give me a kiss." His eyes twinkling, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Every time he said it she could not help the smile that sneaked onto her lips, the light blush that graced her cheeks. She leans over and brushes her lips against his. Its rarely just one kiss anymore, as his hands disappear into her hair.

They lay on a couch, her atop of him, her head on his chest, and she can hear his heartbeat. A black and white film flickers on the tiny tube television, the only light in the room. He brushes her hair absentmindedly. And then he says it, and she can feel his heart skip a beat as he takes a deep breath, pauses, "I love you."

"I love you." Nothing changes; the film continues, his hand brushes her hair, his heart beats. But neither can remember ever feeling this deep happiness.


	2. Chapter 2

Moments Chapter 2

She loves it when she wakes up before him. It does not happen often; he likes to let her sleep in, likes waking up with her tucked against his chest, likes watching her sleep peacefully for a few minutes before starting his morning routine.

She wakes with a weight on her side, a warmth against her back, her hand intertwined with another, and smiles. She slips out from under Arthur's arm slowly and silently, turning onto her back and watching him sleep. She takes in his stubble, brushes her palm over his cheek, admires its roughness. Stubble is very not-Arthur-like, but she thinks that he looks quiet handsome with it.

She runs her hand through his soft, messy hair, rubs a silky lock in between her fingers, admires his horribly wrinkled white t-shirt. She knows that no one else gets to see him like this. This is her Arthur, comfortable enough to be imperfect and unkempt around her, and she does not have to share him with anyone.

. . .

He likes staying at her apartment in Paris. He has one here, too, and a few others in other countries. Their refrigerators and cupboards are empty, the hot water turned off, the electricity disconnected. They are all furnished beautifully, mostly in dark woods, but decorated sparsely; no pictures, no photographs, no letters or birthday presents or personalized mugs. These things he keeps in a lock box in a bank in NYC, another city that he has an apartment in. When there he goes to the bank, gets his lock box, and takes these things home. Decorates it with them. His apartment in Paris is not only clean, but sterile, empty, lifeless.

Ariadne's apartment is messy, but not disastrous. There are books and art prints and photographs everywhere, mostly of buildings or corners of buildings or details of bridges. The couch is broken in, the television used, dirty dishes sit in the sink, wrappers in the trash, mail on the counter, dirty clothes in a corner on the floor waiting for laundry day. The toothpaste is almost empty, the milk carton is open, the bed is only half made; the sheets thrown back into position but not tucked or straightened. Her apartment feels lived in, feels alive, feels like a home. Is starting to feel like his home. There are a few photographs of them, of her, of others. She has a mug that she painted in third grade. She bought him one with a black tie on it.

. . .

He likes to play pool. Billiards, on a full championship table, specifically. It seems fitting, she thinks; the soft yellows lights, the angles of the pool table, Arthur in tan slacks with rolled up sleeves and an unbuttoned collar. She watches him lean over and aim down the cue. He's winning, but she does not mind. Eames has his cards and, when he's had a few and has forgotten the pointlessness of chance, roulette. She has her chess and, with Philippe and James, checkers. Arthur has his billiards.

. . .

AN: I'm liking this fic a bit more than my other one, you know, with plot. I'm just feeling this style right now and am disappointed with how the other one's going. Anyway, enjoy. I'm busy busy at work during the week, but should have some time to write on Friday.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: I'm sorry for not updating this. I don't really have a good excuse, but this one has dialogue! And them making out! I know that that's what you really wanted to read, anyway. Shameless, aren't you? Its all I want to read, too. So I wrote it, yay!

Moments Chapter 3

. . .

It had been lonely, before her. Not heart achingly lonely, not homesick lonely, not even noticeably lonely. Life had been tolerable; he had been content. He was always meeting, working with, researching new people. Cobb was good company on and in between jobs; a familiar constant. He missed Mal; they never talked about her even though he wanted to. Cobb was not the reminiscing, sit around telling old stories type, so neither was Arthur.

Staying in hotels and apartments by himself; that was a bit lonely. Laying on his back in queen or king sized beds in an unfamiliar room, even in his apartments, waiting to fall asleep left him with an unfamiliar ache in his chest.

They lay on the covers staring at the ceiling of another hotel, jetlagged and overworked and tired. He tells her stories of past jobs, of past coworkers. Almost all of them are humorous and happy memories. His favorites involve Eames discovering new ways to annoy him. Sometimes he talks of Mal. His voice drops, his speech slows, and Ariadne turns on her side and presses herself against him. He pulls her even closer and strokes her hair. He talks of the old Dom, the Dom before Cobb, the Dom that they are slowly getting back. These stories are all happy, too.

"She used to say that I was her first kid. I was twenty when we first met, the three of us."

"Did you wear suits then, too?"

"Cheaper ones." He looks at her, very seriously. "I'm allergic to denim, you know."

"Really?"

"No." She lightly slaps his chest and rolls her eyes.

She tells him stories, too, although she thinks that most of them are quite boring, but he seems to enjoy them.

"I didn't know that I was lonely until I met you." He kisses her temple, intertwines their fingers. "Didn't know what I was missing."

"You're quite sentimental tonight," she teases, squeezing his hand.

"Just happy."

"Good. I like my Arthur happy."

. . .

He ran his fingers along the brown and blue and black spines of countless old books. The dark, wooden shelves went from floor to ceiling of the massive university library. Golden sunlight streamed in through beautiful round windows, dust fakes drifting pass. The bookcases were scrammed together in seemingly endless rows so that only feet were left between them. She smiled beside him, amused by the awed expression on his face. She loved this library, loved the smell of old books, a smell that she had come to associate with him.

"Do you like it?"

He rubbed his finger down a spine, over the title, his skin pulling the dust off to reveal gold lettering. His hand dropped, thumb and finger rubbing together to remove the dust, as he turned to face her.

"I know its not, like, a personal library, but I can check out any books that you want and we can come here. . . together. . . I just thought-"

She landed against the bookcase with a 'thunk' as he bent down and kissed her.

. . .

"Do you miss home?"

"With you I am home."

"That's corny, Arthur."

"You complete me."

"Alright."

"You're the apple of my eye."

"Please stop."

"Si tu veux savoir combien je'taime, compte les vagues."(You want to know how great my love is, count the waves)

"Breaking out the French, I see."

"Always worked on all of the other girls."

"Mmhmm."

Sarcasm gone. "I mean all of it."

A smile. "I know."

. . .

Her fingers slipped over his buttons as she mumbled about 'unnecessary layers of clothing' and her 'newfound hate for tailored vests,' Arthur's mouth and tongue and teeth doing wonderful things to her collarbone. His hands were on her hips, her ribs, her thighs, her cheeks, in her hair, stroking, his thumbs moving in small circles. Her back hit the wall and his lips found hers in an open mouthed kiss. She was still fussing with the buttons but his hands had found her hips again and he kept darting his tongue out and sucking on her bottom lip and she could feel his defined abs beneath her hands and smell his unique scent. She counted the buttons; twenty.

"You wore this one just to frustrate me."

". . .Maybe."


End file.
